


Hang on to yourself - Chapter 2

by basaltgrrl, debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns





	Hang on to yourself - Chapter 2

  
  
By the end of Gene's first day undercover he had made at least ten mistakes.

It wasn't the way the plan was supposed to go, and he was furious with himself. He was out of practice. He was rough as a new recruit. He was just lucky these poncey Southern bastards had their hands full learning the layout of a new city, or they would have had their eye on him far more than they already did--and that was saying something. From a near verbal recognition at the chippy to his unfortunate bristling when Carl snapped an order, and a host of awkward moments in between, it had been a day of intermittent terror that he masked with forced rough banter. As soon as he had a moment's privacy, in the tiny loo at their tiny flat, he changed from his sweat-soaked shirt and cursed his own stink of fear.

Truth was, he mused to himself as he did the washing up after their lacklustre tea of beans, toast and tinned spinach, Sam might have done a better job in his place. Not that he'd ever tell the smug git that to his face.

Geordie and Carl were decent blokes--as cold-blooded killers went. Southern, yes, but not the classy sort; he could recognize in their body language a certain kinship, and their willingness to share a shitty flat among five men showed the kind of hardbitten pragmatism that came with long years working their way up the ladder. It was all good, right? He'd lived the same kind of life himself, although on the opposite side of the law from these criminal masterminds; surely they'd recognize something in his attitude. The other locals who'd been hired were fortunately not men Gene had dealt with in the past.

He hung the dishcloth over the faucet tap to dry and turned to meet Carl's unswerving stare.

"All done then, Henry?" Gene thought there was a mocking tone to the words. Carl slumped in the armchair, cigarette hanging from his slack fingers, one ankle propped on the other knee. He was a big man, as tall as Gene but younger. Harder. Not a man to take lightly. His sandy hair was cut as short as Sam's, and his disconcertingly pale grey eyes seemed to bore holes.

"Better to deal with it right away, my mum always said," he answered.

"Mummy's boy, then."

He gave back as good as he got in the glare department. "Not any more."

Geordie snorted but didn't look up from the telly.

Mackie and Peter laughed suddenly at the table. Mackie had produced a deck of cards from his jacket of many pockets. "Care for a game, mate?"

Yeah, thought Gene to himself, with resignation, but not with you. "Sure. How much?" He dug around for some change. Carl rose from the armchair and took the remaining seat at the round kitchen table. They played poker with as much enthusiasm as a group of boys waiting to take a maths exam. It felt passing strange to be doing these things with a group of strangers--a thought that he tried to push away again and again, but without much success. It was hard not to imagine Sam's flat. Sam's cooking, always a little bit unexpected and shockingly better than anything he could make himself. Sam's bed, the two of them, tired together.

Mackie scooped up the cards with a crow of victory. "Cor, it's like playing cards with a mental."

Gene didn't have to fake the bristling; truth was he wanted to bash Mackie one in his fat, ugly gob. "I'm dead on my feet. Wondering if I get the bed or the floor tonight."

He stood up, with a hard, measuring stare into Mackie's piggish eyes, and then slouched to the sofa, sank into it next to Geordie who shifted over a few inches. The entire place stank of mildew and stale beer. He fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, sucked down the smoke for a few moments in blissful silence.

Carl finished his own ciggie and ground it out against the sole of his own shoe. "You knew the deal, Henry. No special privileges, but a good payout in the end. Having second thoughts?"

Gene snorted. "Not bloody likely. Chance like this, once in a lifetime. I'm your man."

"Hope you still feel that way after Sunday."

"Have I given you any reason to think I'd change my mind?" He sucked his cigarette down to the end and tossed it in the ashtray, then dug out a second one with a sense of resignation. Sam would be scowling, telling him to space them out. Well, bollocks to Sam. "What's Sunday, then?"

Geordie chuckled to himself, eyes still fixed on the telly. Carl leaned forward in his chair. "Look, Williams. You'll prove your worth to me, one way or another." He waved an expansive hand. "I'm no shrinking violet, and I've been around the block more than a few times. I know your type--or I will, in a day or two, and then we'll see what you can really do for me. You ever kill a man?"

Gene exhaled a long stream of smoke. "I have done."

"Well, you'll kill another before our work is over."

***

There was a point, the next evening, when Gene knew it was going pear-shaped. What's more, he wanted it to happen.

It had been a long day. The sort of day he hadn't had for years with the sort of experiences he had hoped to leave behind. Being ordered about. Standing in the cold rain for two hours waiting for some blokes to show up, turning up the collar of his waxed cotton jacket, pulling his hat down a little closer over his eyes and cursing the world, the criminal element, and in particular one Carl Reynolds. Who the bloody hell knew that the hardest thing about going undercover as a member of a murderous criminal gang was going to be the abrasive personality of his erstwhile leader?

Although, come to think of it, perhaps the real problem was having a leader at all. Didn't feel natural, any more, taking orders.

When they finally retreated to their shitehole of a flat they were all damp and sullen, except, perhaps, for Carl who had spent a significant part of the day in a pub. That was Gene's professional opinion as an undercover detective, anyway, based on Carl's distinct odour of malt beverage and the fact that Gene himself had been lookout in front of the Pig and Whistle for the greater part of the afternoon.

"So did you get anything out of that experience besides a massive bender?" he couldn't stop himself from asking.

Carl froze for a moment in the act of hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, head cocked and staring at Gene in that way that was already all too familiar. "What did you just say?"

"What did you learn, mate? What's our next move?"

Carl's nostrils flared. "Did I tell you to ask me questions?"

"All you told me to do today was stand in a doorway. Didn't feel like I was achieving a bloody thing. Maybe I want to know that that was worth something."

The others had frozen into a tableau of horrified fascination. A brief flicker of Carl's gaze let Gene know that he was fully aware of the rapt audience, and a subliminal tensing of muscles put him on his guard. The blow was expected but powerful. Carl's fist sank into Gene's belly, and a moment later a slap to the head knocked him back against the wall. Nothing he couldn't take, but it stirred the red rage inside and he was fighting himself--bastard big rage it was, the kind that made him want to literally kill something, not that he hadn't learned to control that impulse long ago. He was trying--he was really trying to make this work. To gain the trust of this midlevel underworld scrote, to stay in his good graces for long enough to do his bloody job, and Carl seemed bound and determined to make this impossible.

Gene sagged against the wall, stomach convulsing on the nothing he'd eaten all day, and a fist lashed out to take him across the jaw, snap his head back the other way.

He could move quickly. It always took people by surprise when he did, just because he was a big man and tended to exaggerate his size with his clothing and his stance. It was nothing to knock Carl back sprawling across the kitchen table. A moment later a table leg gave way and Carl slid to the floor, and Gene was right there, booted foot drawn back. Carl had his hands up, face contorted in rage.

Something hit Gene's head so hard it sang. He staggered forward a step, vision going dark, and then hands were grabbing him, forcing him back. Somewhere someone was yelling, hard, angry words. Hands pushed him into a chair.

He figured he'd lost a few seconds of time, because the next thing he knew was Carl's face, purple with anger, and spittle was flying from his lips. "I'll beat some fucking sense into you, you gigantic bastard! Do what I say or you'll never live to know better! I'll rip you a new one, arsehole! Are you hearing me, Williams?" It was unnerving, all right, and not pleasant, but there was familiarity in being put in his place. Just reminding him that this was a game they all played, and that he still knew the rules, still knew how to knuckle under and take his reprimand.

Gene rocked a little in the kitchen chair, dizzy. He lifted his hands to the table--they felt heavy as rocks. "So," he croaked. "'M I still in? Do I still have a job?"

Carl pinned him with a look, then shook his head. "Lord. They breed 'em hard up here, eh? So you're still my man, eh, Henry?"

"Fuck, yeah." Gene coughed. "Who's up for a game of cards?"

Mackie tittered--there was no other word for it, and when Carl stomped off into the other room and came back with his cigarettes he seemed to have burned off the worst of his rage. Geordie hefted a bottle of beer, no doubt what he had clocked Gene with, the bastard.

"Seriously, blokes. Whisky? Let's have a round." Gene fished around until he found the two flasks in his inner pockets.

"Yer a daft bugger," Carl growled. "Gi' me some of that." He took a long slug straight from Gene's flask, dropped his hand to eye Gene consideringly, then took a second drink.

"Oi. Save some for the rest of us."

"Oh, you'll get yours. But always after I take what's mine." The words fell with the force of prophecy.

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